Zoids Shorts
by pointytilly
Summary: Zoids ficlets and snippets too long to be drabbles but too short to post alone. All are self-contained, however; there's no incomplete bits.
1. Fluff and Death Saurers?

**Series:** Battle Story, old Zoids Graphics breed  
**Character(s):** Störmer, Elena  
**Genre:** Character interaction, fluff  
**Pairing(s):** Leans Störmer/Elena, not romance outright  
**Wordcount:** 757  
**Notes:** This is actually rather old. It's also set not long before the unpleasantries with Guylos taking Zenebas' army/kidnapping his daughter/etc. He's not a very nice chap.

* * *

Störmer had an uncanny ability to disappear, resurfacing when needed or obligated to be somewhere as if he'd always been there. Elena was equally good at finding him, over ten years of experience and sheer stubbornness serving in her favor. When they were younger she'd often tormented him once found, half because he'd dared hide and half because it was so interesting to see how little he'd react.

She'd gotten older, taking to appreciating solitude more herself but still remaining curious. At the same time, he seemed to find it increasingly amusing he was worth following and that she was clever enough to do it, and so she still did.

Today there was nothing to do besides look for him or worry. There were a thousand things on her mind and none of them quieting, so Elena had spent the morning furiously pacing the hallways near her room, trying to outrun her own thoughts. After half an hour wasted, a fingernail bitten down to the quick (enough to put her off the practice in the future), and discovering that high heels were terribly unsuitable for pacing in, she'd decided that worry got old quickly. Störmer it was.

When the more deserted areas of the castle itself failed and her father had gotten rather annoyed at her "stalking about" while he was planning things (hardly fair, it wasn't as if she'd commandeered one of the military charts as a field for miniature Zoid campaigns like when she was seven), Elena moved on to the hangars. Störmer must have picked up on Zenebas' nasty mood a lot sooner and distanced himself as much as was allowable, she guessed. Besides that, the Zoids suited him. They had a calming presence with their steady living-electrical hum, watching through metal eyes as if listening.

Dodging technicians and their formal greetings, she finally spotted Störmer by one of the Death Saurers. He was sitting with arms crossed and eyes closed, leaning tensely against the side of its foot and facing the wall. Lost in thought, on edge, she could tell...enough that she was tempted to leave. Uneasy curiosity kept her watching from around the Saurer's toes, wondering what he wouldn't share even with her.

It was the same thoughts that had kept her wandering restlessly all day, no doubt. Fate was about to whack her father's Empire upside the head, and whatever it brought would take them with it. Even here, away from most of the activity, the feeling was there-several gaps in the line of Death Saurers left more light in their corner than there should have been, and the Mad Thunder responsible had brought whisperings of the Dark Continent...would her father really go that far?

"Stay, then."

The sound jolted her, slightly, and she refocused her attention to note Störmer was watching her now, perhaps a slight hint of concerned in his own tense stare. She saved the excuses and just sat down, tucking her legs under her to avoid the chilly floor. He was as silent as the Zoids, but somehow more reassuring. It was better to focus on that and ignore the cold metal of the Death Saurer's foot against her back, bringing her mind back to where it had been. _How long until this Saurer met the same end as its brothers, how long until they all did?_

Störmer shifted, uncrossing his arms and reaching a hand for her shoulder. She'd been shaking slightly and hadn't realized, and now cursed that she couldn't hide things as well as he looked down at her, eyes narrowing and expression unreadable. But the hand on her shoulder became him pulling her insistently closer, wrapping his arms around her in a tentatively protective attempt at a hug.

Elena squeaked, half falling against him—and if getting so emotional was unprincesslike, she couldn't begin to classify squeaking. She caught the faint hint of a stifled chuckle as she hit his chest: one quickly suppressed, but still enough for her to hold back a smile herself. They were even, then. Laughing was hardly Störmer's style. She relaxed a bit, reflecting that he was both skinnier and warmer than she'd have expected, and his grip comfortingly tight for what she'd thought was a momentary thing.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, settling in curled up against Störmer's chest, and neither of them spoke further. The distant clamor of machine work faded into the background with the rhythm of the Zoids, and for now—for whenever—the world didn't matter.


	2. Rematch, sans Backdraft

**Series:** /Zero  
**Character(s):** Bit, Liger Zero, a bit of Stoller  
**Genre:** Action  
**Wordcount:** 1422  
**Notes:** This is from a while back when I had a go at writing first person. The change in feel when Bit's "I" becomes a "we" is intentional: the Zero would write differently if it could narrate, so I tried to show its influence more as the battle went on.

* * *

I guess I should introduce myself—I'm Bit Cloud. You probably know my name if you like Zoids, 'cause me and my Liger Zero won the Royal Cup last year. It's really only been eight months, but man, has it been some fun times. We've had all kinds of great battles in Class S, and some with our old rivals too. I don't care about the class differences, real class is the stuff people like them show in battle. Yeah, bad joke, sorry! I wouldn't be hanging around writing if I didn't have a cool story to tell, so I'll get to that. It's about me and Liger, Stoller, the Elephander, and us finally getting that rematch.

Stoller showed up at the base one day, walking in quietly like some blue cat, or some blue cat-eyed man. I don't remember what everyone else was doing, but I was working on Liger's leg, chatting about the suspension. He said had a challenge for me. Not the rest of my team, just him and me and the Elephander. Was I interested? Like he didn't know my answer! I told him I'm always up for a fight, and he just nodded. He looks like a cat when he nods too, with the way he kinda dips his chin.

"How about some stipulations...to make it more interesting?" Interesting meant fun in Stoller-speak.

"What kinda stipulations?" I said, and he told me. I'd be using plain ol' Zero, no armor changing. Before I could say too much about that being unfair (he was good at interrupting for a quiet guy), he told me the rest. He'd have his Elephander, the fighter mode with the energy saber trunk. No shield, no gatling, no tricks, he said; just claw versus sword and Zoid versus Zoid.

This was going to be great.

I slept in Liger's head the night before the battle. I do that sometimes, it's cozy and smells a bit like snack food because of the bags I shove under the seat. Chips help me think, and he likes the company.

We headed to battle alone. The only guy who'd see us fight was the judgeman, and that was how it should be. Liger agreed. I could feel him getting all wired and fired up, same as me. I wasn't so much riding him into battle now as we were running together, and I held back a growl as we reached out destination and the Elephander came in sight. We were in a plain studded with rocky hills, plenty of room for me to run but cover for the Elephander. Fair's fair.

The judgeman rang things in. I twitched in anticipation and Liger's toes twitched with me before we were rushing forward, boosters blazing and claws tearing up the ground. It really was like flying as we weaved around the shots fired our way, but the real fun started as we got close to the Elephander and Stoller whipped out the saber. He was serious now, and so were we.

We finished with the fancy charging business and lunged into a hard right spiral of a turn, rolling almost onto our shoulder and swiping lefthand claws at the 'Phander's knee along the way. Stoller kicked for our head and boosters flared again, trying to pull us far enough away. He'd missed, but so had we, and he didn't miss the second time he kicked. We learned the hard way not to get right behind the Elephander then, in a bone-jarring kick to the ribs sense of hard.

That didn't keep us down for a second, and we were waiting for the saber trunk as the Elephander turned, meeting sword with flaming Strike Laser slap. Sparks flew along the Phander's trunk and past our eyes as we reared up, parrying Stoller's second lunge with equal fury. The Elephander trumpeted, shifting ever backward as we clashed. For every bit of power it and Stoller had, we had momentum, we had speed, we has _us_. There could be no better match—it was like dancing and fencing all in one, with the swords replaced by your own two hands and a partner twice your size.

Our claws grew chipped even as the lightblade grew dimmer—no dance could last forever. There were rocks, now, where there had been grass seconds ago. The Phander took stand against one of them, blaring defiance and lashing out with a rearing two-legged kick far harder than the last. What had been the swing of a claw became two impossibly loud _cracks_ as its attack connected, flinging our legs around and our jaw to the sky. We lashed out blindly, left claws raking a satisfying tear in the Elephander's belly and shoulder as we flew back to hit the ground hard. The tips of our claws stayed behind, overheated razor edges snapped off. We saw them for a split second, lodged in the Elephander's chest and glowing red-hot, and then the trunk came around for a follow-through, whipping across our already battered face.

Stabilizers screamed and blood spilled, but what were loose caps and a bitten lip? Nothing! We roared, both of us, and flung ourselves at the 'Phander, teeth and claws flailing for the prize of the saber generator before it could recharge. The Phander roared right back and reared again, raising its trunk out of reach and slamming its feet into our chest with all the rage of a cornered animal. That's what it was, with Stoller guiding its fear and anger into focused skill the same way we rode together. For all the slashes of burning metal I drew across its flanks as we snarled and rumbled and snapped, it paid things back equally with the crushing force of its feet.

At last we stopped, settling back and moving a few lengths away from Stoller and the Elephander. Some understanding passed between us, and it charged its trunk again, energy conduits struggling to keep the sword's shape. We charged our claws in turn, shunting power from what was left of the left set entirely to the right until it burned, laser-feel tinged with the tingling pain of overload. Lightning fast, we jumped, boosters taking us into the path of an upward cut in a spectacular light show. It was blinding, almost beautiful, and gone in a flash. The trunk shorted out as our claws poured out the last of their charge and we rocketed forward. For a moment, we thought of the past: tearing through the Phander's shoulder as Jäger, breaking a blade the same way as Schneider. It wouldn't go that way this time.

Claws dulled and legs kicked to pieces, we hit the Phander's shoulder hard and drove into it like a linebacker, whiplash proving cruel as the clawed end of our leg stayed put and the rest of us continued on. We broke free as we backflipped into the rock, and we fell. Fell, and stayed down. We tried to rise on three legs and failed, the Elephander's shredded trunk blindsiding us and sweeping us in front of its feet with the subtlety of bricks on string. Slowly, its right leg wobbling, the beast raised one great foot, bringing it down over our neck.

Stoller stopped it short of a crushing blow, too honorable a man to finish a downed enemy when his victory was already won. We surrendered then, combat systems shutting down in a gesture of amused defeat.

The judge took off, and that was it. I jumped down from Liger and watched my buddy shift his ruined leg around until he'd gotten himself into a sort of dignified cattish lounge. He rumbled weakly and I grinned right back. He'd had fun too. I waved to Stoller as he walked over. "That was awesome!"

"You continue to impress me. Fencing is not commonly a skill found in Liger pilots." He sounded tired and happy and calm all at once, which is about how I was minus the calm. He offered his hand, so I shook it.

"Well, me and Liger aren't exactly common, y'know!"

"No, you certainly aren't." I'm not sure if Stoller thought I was funny or if he was thinking of other things. But he was smiling, looking at me and then at Liger. I think he could tell Liger was staring right back.

"So, Bit Cloud. Same time, same place, a month from now?"

I grinned and Liger roared approval. "Wouldn't miss it!"


	3. That explains the pants

**Series:** Battle Story, old Zoid Graphics breed  
**Character(s):** Shuu  
**Genre:** Introspection, gen  
**Wordcount:** 906  
**Notes:** I found this mostly-done in a file, apparently started during NaNoWriMo, and recently finished it. Set before Gunbluster's appearance, early into the Republic's exploring Nyx. Think the old school Dark Continent stuff.

* * *

There are Dark Horns shooting at me, it's early in the morning, and my Zoid is upside-down. Where the hell are my pants?

Wait, let me back up a bit. I'm a scientist, or I was before I ended up in charge of this mission. It was supposed to be scouting, research, infiltration...just about anything other than getting chased round swamps and valleys by the Dark Army. They've had us pinned near Godcry for weeks, and we've been holding on scouts, luck, and not much in the way of food or sleep. It takes a lot of Cannonfort to hold off one Horn, _their_ pilots can get rest.

Tonight was particularly ambush-flavored, and it's why I'm recording this. To be blunt, if we don't get reinforcements soon, we're dead, and I'd like to leave something behind. It's also why I'm lacking in clothes. When your first time sleeping in the last thirty-nine hours ends with heavy artillery fire and a dash to your Zoid twenty minutes in, you tend to forget things.

I bet the other commander's wishing I'd hurry up and die, and I bet he's got pants. He's wanting to go home same as me...well, unless his home's the Central Continent too. He's got someone waiting, then, someone who won't mind that I'm going home in pieces so long as he's back. That's assuming there'd be pieces of me left to find if the Cannonfort's cockpit took a full-on blast from a Horn. Those vulcans are really quite amazing, unusually powerful even for something boosted by the ore we've identified in the rocks here. There has to be something more to that stuff than fueling the native Zoids if they were able to modify Red Horn for the same effect, and I'd like to find out what it is before one kills me.

Really, people back home are getting to have all the fun with _my_ data. Not just about the dark mecha, I've been studying the geography, the effects of constant cloud cover, why not to stick your hand near that plant that "only looks like it has fangs"...but it's damned hard to think about survival-unrelated science in an environment like this, much less compose anything resembling a paper. Still, even with the Nyx lot and ex-Zenebas out for my blood I bet I'm close to fifty thousand words of disorganized notes, maybe sixty. Half of that's shoved under the 'Fort's seat and controls right now, so if I'm killed tonight and my Zoid survives, whoever finds this better get my work to those who'll use it.

And if you've been listening 'til now hoping for action and final charges and noble fates, you're probably thinking I'm a pretty dull guy, or at least shitty propaganda material. I don't _like_ recording how my friends die. I'd rather talk about the living and look to the future, and like I said, I'm a scientist. I still think that way. Look at it like this: a good commander's observing the way the enemy and his Zoids work and trying to predict future results on the schedule from Hell. What's the worst that happens to a proper scientist? Somebody cusses you out, takes your funding, maybe complains about you to the President. If you're slow in dealing with a Dark Horn, you're dead. Quite probably flat, too. I'm not sure I like the higher stakes, but I don't think the scholars and engineers on the Central Continent would be much for fighting either.

My dad always said I should stick to being a scientist. Scientists don't get Dark Horns dropped on their heads, Shuu, and they don't end up dead like your brother...but I never really knew my brother, and I couldn't sit by and watch the continent crumble while Guylos built an invasion army. I know what my father meant now, and if he hears this, I'm sorry I gave you another kid to bury. Guess the war's in our blood more than you thought.

Cheh, I'm supposed to be cheering everyone on, not rambling to a blackbox. But my comm's down, and the last thing I got through was to not worry about me, keep moving forward, Bird's in charge. Hopefully there's not a Horn circling round to finish me off, though I'd make a nice martyr then. "He was encouraging even in death", I can think of worse ways to be remembered.

Enough morbid. I want my Cannonfort on its feet, I want a cup of coffee, and I want to know what the hell's going on. I can still hear gunfire, though it's distant now. Sounds like the others are having better luck than me, or the Dark Army's just retreating for another assault. Either way, it's time to rally everybody, get the Raynos flying again, see what's going down and if there's any way I can stop it.

All this fighting, all these plans...I don't know whether to feel very old or very young. Both? I'm like that, these days. No matter what, though, one more day is another day we have alive, and I'll be damned if I'm giving up yet. All this stuff I'm saying? Keep it off the record until things are finished—you hear me, Bird? I don't want anyone losing faith on my account, and you'd better not either.


	4. Chocolate gets involved

**Series:** Games (Vs./Battle Legends and Saga/Legacy)  
**Character(s):** Zan, Tita, and a bit of Albane  
**Genre:** Humor, romance  
**Pairing(s):** Zan/Tita  
**Wordcount:** 2219  
**Notes:** I can't believe there's nothing for this pairing, considering both translated games we got note Tita's thing for Zan and his shounen-protagonist-style obliviousness. Ah well. Legacy's weirdness led to me trying to cram love confession tropes into something...cheese but hopefully amusing.

* * *

Being a military test pilot carried certain benefits and risks. Zan Fel generally felt the benefits far outshone anything else (you got to work with Zoids, after all), but there were days that made him doubt his choice of career. They were the ones that brought the war closer than he wanted, ones where Zoids and pilots returned in more pieces than they should.

Today was mixed.

No one had died, and the Zoids hadn't ended up strewn across the landscape, but the whole 'ambush in the valley' deal with bonus rockslide wasn't Zan's idea of a success. Not when he'd had to dig Tita's Liger out in the middle of an extremely persistent Helcat mob, and certainly not when she'd turned out to be shaken silly under the lot. The Helcats had piled on Albane shouting about surrender and money, proving themselves both bandits (why was it always bandits?) and very annoying, and Zan had ended up carrying Tita out himself while trying to work out why half-conscious people were so heavy and how the hell to fit two people in a Snipe Master's head in the midst of laser fire. A few swatted Helcats later, he and his captain limped their way to the nearest city with medical facilities.

He'd been told three times since that he shouldn't have gone dragging Tita around, but Zan wanted to see any of the medical staff say that with Helcats breathing down their neck and a Snipe Master chittering to _grab the girl and run, dumbass_. Besides, Tita was awake by the time they got there, and conscious enough to walk with a bit of help...help meaning her clinging unstably to his shoulder and stepping on his foot. Zan might have complained, but the way he saw it, anyone using Albane to lean on would end up with several stab wounds they hadn't had before.

She'd gibbered about how funny Helcats looked running upside-down much of the way there, and whenever he'd talked to her she'd told him things like the rocks that fell on her Zoid were the color of the quarry back home with more sparkle. Zan wondered if he'd been this ridiculous the times he'd gotten cracked in the head, but he decided none of them would ever have let him forget it. They still brought up the bar incident with the dancing and the lack of pants and the Liger-print boxers, which wasn't really fair.

Another scolding (at least this nurse called him a brave idiot), and Zan was left with the worst part of post-piloting-fail: the waiting. Some men hated impending lectures from command, hospitals were what got to him. They were full of injured people, death, and terrible food.

Pacing only worked so long, and Zan headed outside before somebody started nagging him about scuffing up the floors or how his boots squeaked or how he kept walking into people. The Zoids weren't so depressing, and with how his Snipe Master'd been hissing in distress on their arrival it was probably worried about Tita...he'd been worried too. He found it near the back of the local hangar, sandwiched between a couple Ligers with its skinny body almost hidden by their bulk. Thankfully, brilliant orange and white was the farthest thing from camouflage Zan had yet to discover. The Snipe started shifting almost imperceptibly back and forth on its locked talons as he got closer, grinding them against the concrete.

"She'll be okay. Concussion, they're just checking stuff."

The Snipe answered with a chirp and cocked its head to one side, now visibly wiggling its battered hips.

"Quit wobblin', you're meant to be parked!" Like he could talk about being restless, Zan thought, as it chirped again and gave a definite swish of tail. He sighed and snapped his fingers up at the Snipe's face. "Fine. Make yourself useful if you're not going to listen."

The Zoid settled quickly into a crouch, tucking limbs close and lowering its head to within arms' reach. He responded with a poke to the eye, and the Snipe popped its cockpit open and steadied enough to be climbable. Zan kept a ready supply of snacks under its seat, and if nothing else he could do something useful with them.

* * *

"Look, if you try it, they'll know. But who's gonna suspect anything odd about _me_ carrying food around?"

Albane had that look on his face—the one that came with bemoaning the combined brilliance and utter lack of sense on part of his underlings, and usually preceded long-suffering but well-humored reprimand. Zan stayed perched in the next chair over, trying to look determined more than eager and bored. Smuggling candy past picky medics was much more interesting than sitting around, and it was nice. Didn't Albane remember eating at these places?

"Most guys would just bring flowers."

"Most guys would have gotten stomped by the Helcats. And I found chocolate, Tita likes chocolate!"

"Mmm. If you must, watch out for the one with the red hair." Albane leaned back, crossing his arms well clear of knives and closing his eyes. "And remember that I know nothing of this...plan."

It was his way of trying to be politely discouraging, and Zan ignored it completely. He saluted instead, hopping out of his chair with a willfully ignorant grin. "Thanks, Cap'n, I'll tell her you said hello."

* * *

He found Tita quickly enough. It only took prodding staff until he'd asked somebody that _wasn't_ the janitor and promised to only annoy her for a bit. Five or ten minutes, tops. And yes, he'd give the mop back and stop waving it around. Zan set off down the hall, counting the number of doors and double-checking before he opened the second one (honestly, some people got so touchy about unexpected lost pilots). He leaned in enough to check that Tita was alone...which meant he wouldn't have to bribe anyone to keep quiet. Good.

"Gh, Zan? What're you sneaking around like that for?"

"I'm not sneaking! I came to say hi, from me and Albane."

Tita still seemed skeptical, and given his track record with hospitals, Zan couldn't blame her. So he grabbed the nearest chair—one of those cheap plastic ones molded so they fit nobody's ass, it always was—and dragged it across the floor in a series of squeaking jerks, rubber feet catching along the way. Undeterred by Tita wincing, he plunked down next to her and started fishing through his pockets. One of them crinkled suspiciously when prodded, another crunched, and a third held what he'd been after. She raised an eyebrow.

"Are you smuggling in _food_?"

Zan nodded and held out the chocolate. If he was going to get in trouble, it might as well be for something like this. "The rustley stuff's mine, it's chips. But this is for you."

"That's sweet," Tita said, looking impressed...and a bit nauseated. Better than angry. "But my head hurts too much to think about eating. You keep it."

"Aw, come on. I thought y'said it was good for headaches."

She rolled her eyes. "Not this kind."

Well, if she insisted. Zan shrugged in resignation, settling down in his perpetually uncomfortable seat. The bar's trip by his side had left it decidedly squishy, and he got two-thirds through peeling off foil and his fingers rather chocolate-covered by the time Tita gave in and held out a wobbly hand.

"Suppose a little can't make it any worse."

Zan broke off the half he'd already bitten (it was only polite, and it was rather nice chocolate) and handed her the rest. "Watch out, 's a bit melty."

She ate slowly, gingerly, and Zan watched the clock. As fun as cheating medical wrath was, he didn't want to bring any down on Tita, not with her all headache'd and disoriented. He wasn't sure whether he feared more for her or the medic involved, but it was enough worry he didn't notice Tita trying to get his attention until she threw the wadded-up foil at his head.

"You've got chocolate on your face," she said once he'd got the ball off the floor. "You're gonna get in trooouble."

Figures she'd find this funny. "So do you. I'll get someth—"

Zan froze. He'd heard footsteps, voices mentioning her name...they were nearby footsteps, the Zan you'd better do something it's gonna be that red-haired nurse sort. The lightning reflexes of a Zoid pilot were good at mapping out the situation, if overdramatic: _incoming hostile, must hide evidence. Need temporary distraction._ Zan's mind's solution was odd and what romance writers might consider contrived, but it made unusual sense when one considered he was also very fond of chocolate.

He sprang up, knocking over the chair as he leaned far enough over the bed to hide their hands, and kissed Tita.

More accurately: Tita figured out what he was doing about the same time he did, and made good on his fakeout before he could get across _pretending_ to kiss her. She was hesitant for one shy, awkward moment, lips only brushing his and her eyes wide open. Before he could panic, she'd got her free hand to the back of his neck and was trailing fingers up into his hair, pulling him closer despite the angle. Things relaxed from there. So he hadn't meant for her to run with something so silly, hadn't expected...he wasn't protesting. In fact, Zan was doing a rather nice job of forgetting anything else, ignoring stammered interruptions from the doorway but staying aware of the whole chocolate issue for entirely different reasons.

"If you'd pay attention, I said your five minutes are up! And she's free to go."

"Mnnffl?" It was harder to talk than he expected, possibly because he was still nibbling on Tita's lower lip.

"Her head checks out, and I've cleared things with the doctor and your captain. You can leave, just check every couple hours, come back if anything gets worse, et cetera. Damned kid pilots..." Zan couldn't see much, but probably-red-hair was sounding increasingly annoyed. Tita shoved him far enough away he could answer, licking his nose along the way.

"Okay, m'am, I've hit my head before—hey!"

Tita mouthed something about chocolate before collapsing into a gigglefit, and he backed away cautiously only to trip on the chair.

* * *

It took them a while to get heading back, mostly because Tita was still unsteady on her feet and Zan was now nursing a bruised rear end. It didn't help she'd gone oddly quiet on him once the humor of his reverse-faceplant-flip over the chair wore off, and had gotten all flustered when he offered a hand. Zan figured it was best to shut up and let her walk. So he'd kissed her, yeah, but he hadn't been the one kissing _back_ like that. He tried to wait, tried to look utterly unconcerned with how _weird_ this was.

"If I'd known that would get your attention," she finally stammered, trying for a smile and looking more giddy, "I'd have tried something with chocolate sauce a long time ago."

Lesser men probably would have choked, Zan just fidgeted. "I'm torn between that being incredibly appealing and extremely sticky."

"Idiot! I didn't say to think about it!" She swung for him and missed, aim thrown by minor head injury and adrenaline. Undaunted, she grabbed hold of his wrist and went for his hair, ruffling it into increasingly chaotic fluff.

"Oi, I give! Quit killin' my pointy!" Zan yelped, and squirmed clear without counting on unbalancing Tita again. He ended up catching her, arms around her waist, and while they avoided elbow-and-doorframe collision, it did nothing for the _weird_ level. Especially not when she shifted far closer than needed for support and rested her arms on his chest in that same nervous sort of way...that or she was thinking of strangling him because his hands had slipped. He hoped not. "Sorry, okay? I was just trying to keep you from getting yelled at."

"Funny way to do that." Her expression was strange, Zan thought, a slight embarrassed grin he wasn't used to seeing. What was appropriate to say upon discovering your best friend fancied you more in the 'I would like to stick my tongue down your throat' sort of way? He had no idea.

"Um. You're not gonna freak out on me once the painkillers wear off, are you?"

"No, promise," Tita said, shaking her head and regretting the motion. "I'd kiss you again but I think I'd be sick. Er, I mean—"

He scooted away along the door, edging alongside her instead to get an arm back around her shoulders. "Concussion stuff. You called me a 'reckless blade-waving idiot' and 'stupider than the dumbest rock in a bed of incredibly dense rocks' the last one I got, remember? I get it."

"Took you long enough," Tita mumbled, falling in stride as best she could while nuzzling into his collar.

By the time they reached Albane, Zan had got the potato chips open one-handed and was munching contentedly.


	5. Evil gardener

**Series:** NJR Battle Story  
**Character(s):** Karl, Hiltz, and a bit of Rudolph.  
**Genre:** Odd character interaction  
**Wordcount:** 619  
**Notes:** Blame Plink, and me making the mistake of wondering where one could fit Hiltz into the battle story, considering its differences. His plant is this charming critter (blood warning, remove spaces):

pointytilly. deviantart. com/ art/ Biting-Plant-of-Nyx-88240918

* * *

Karl walked the once-streets of Valhalla, visually picking through the devastation wrought by the Death Saurer and Prozen's final effort. It had been one last bit of spite, or perhaps cleverly brutal tactics, but the Saurer was dead by Prozen's hand, and the capital with it. What Zoids had survived nearest were twisted hulks, and he forced himself not to think of those who hadn't the protection of an Iron Kong, and instead of the crown prince that strode beside him, eyes wide and teary from both emotion and the bitter air. Karl held back a cough himself as acrid smoke wafted past, the breeze still carrying ash and sparks depending on direction.

Farther from the epicentre of the Saurer's core-overload explosion things were more recognizable. Karl did not find this entirely better, as it meant bodies were recognizable as well. There were living men, too, some crying for help, others too lost in thought and fear to react.

And one, apparently, was standing amid the chaos without a care for whose way he was in, gazing about with an unsettlingly amused expression, as if more curious than awed or terrified. Passers-by and medics gave him a wide berth, but Karl stopped. This man looked like trouble, and even with the city in ruins, he had a duty to protect what remained of the people.

His mystery man was tall, fairly lanky, and clad in once-regal clothing from a Guylos house Karl couldn't place. Wild red hair, the tips scorched and singed, trailed down onto shoulders darkened with ash and potting soil—he was carrying a _plant_ over one of them, unpotted with its roots dangling like tentacles. And the plant had fangs, Karl noticed, mainly because it had started nibbling on the man's hair, trying to pluck out tasty threads of metallic shrapnel that had wound into the curls.

"Tsk. Stop that!" The man swatted it away as one might an overeager puppy, and the plant's leaves drooped a little. "It'll give you indigestion."

"Mister?" Rudolph said, no doubt unable to resist asking. "Who are you, and what is that?"

"That's not important right now," the man began, forcing the plant's leaf-tooth maw away again with the back of his hand. "Have any of you seen Günther? This is one of his favorite specimens."

Karl eyed first man and then ruined terrain surrounding him in some disbelief. "You might see some part of him if you scour the landscape. He's rather vaporized, the Bloody Death Saurer with him."

Rudolph took on an expression in between horrified and that funny sort of serious pout he tended to have when trying not to laugh out of royal obligation to be diplomatic, and Karl briefly regretted the humor.

"Damn. I feared as much, he always had a penchant for explosions and drama." The man bit his lip and frowned, and as he turned back to the again-wiggling plant Karl swore he caught muttered words: _had to play the good evil regent, didn't you, after I said just feed the brat to Chompy._

It was about then that the plant caught hold of his ear. The man gave a final sigh, patting further metal flakes out of his hair and breaking the plant's hold with his fingers. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have new work to find, and zie's getting a bit _troublesome_."

Karl watched him turn and walk away, boots crunching in burnt and glass-filled soil and the plant's tooth-leaves bobbing with every footfall. He was left full of questions, not the least of which included just how much of the Empire's budget their ruler had sunk into horticulture.

At least this explained regent Prozen's recent—and now former—fascination with gardening.


End file.
